


Eight Second Hero

by Dannell Lites Archivist (offpanel_archivist)



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-11-28
Updated: 2001-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:08:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1747418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/offpanel_archivist/pseuds/Dannell%20Lites%20Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prospective new X-Man?? Maybe ... maybe NOT:):)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eight Second Hero

**Author's Note:**

> This story is archived on behalf of Dannell Lites, who passed away in 2002, with the permission of her family. Posting date approximate. 
> 
> ___
> 
> SPIFFY DISCLAIMER THINGIE!
> 
> Ah do not own the concept of The Common People. That belongs to  
> Kielle. Charlie, however is all mine. He's an old friend. This is  
> moi's first Common People fic, so be kind:):)
> 
> Rated G for absolute purity of content! No sex, no drugs, no rock and  
> roll. And only a little C&W music! Hee!

He's an eight second hero  
The pain don't count, 'cuz it's a matter of pride  
But, sometimes the pay's awful thin  
And this eight second hero knows that someday  
The bull's gonna win ...  
  
"Eight Second Hero"  
Randy Travis - a song about rodeo cowboys  
  
He's an Indian cowboy in the rodeo  
And I'm just another little girl who loves him so ...  
  
"He's An Indian Cowboy At The Rodeo"  
Buffy Sainte-Marie  
  
  
  
I am Charlie By-And-By.  
  
And I have found the center of the Earth.  
  
My parents were both Human Beings. No, that is not right, is it? I am  
a Human Being (which is to say that I am Cheyenne who call ourselves the  
Human Beings among ourselves), but my parents could not have been  
totally human. I am a mutant. The hairless pinda - likoye in the  
strange mechanical chair explained it to me very carefully. He did not  
want me to misunderstand and I am not an educated man such as he is, so  
he was sparing with his simple words; unlike most white men, the pinda -  
o - likoye.  
  
"Mr. By and By," he began.  
  
My name is Charlie. I have many others, after the customs of my people,  
the Cheyenne. But they are not for his ears. Not being white, I have  
never been a "Mister". But I did not correct him. It is impolite to  
interrupt a man when he is speaking. Even the pinda - o - likoye say  
this. So I, being a polite man, did not speak. And I sensed he meant  
well. Unusual for a white-eyes. He seemed to be in a great hurry which  
is not at all unusual for a white man.  
  
"You are a mutant," he told me. "Born with abilities that others do not  
have."  
  
"The animals," I agreed. "The animals understand me. And I understand  
them." I shook my head slightly. "But this is because I listen when  
they speak. This is only polite and I am a polite man. Winterwolf  
speaks louder and more strongly than I." This white man who mimics the  
air of a patient saint slowly trudging down the Jesus Road leaned  
forward, curious now.  
  
"Winterwolf?" he asks.  
  
I schooled my face to silence and said nothing. It is better that he  
not know of Winterwolf. Not yet. My grandson has wondered far from the  
center of the Earth, but he will not find his way back with this man's  
help.  
  
Never found much use for white men. My mother ran off with a white man  
from Yucca Flats. Left me and my father alone.  
  
"Don't worry, Charlie," my father said, then. "She'll be back by and  
by. She'll be back by and by." Whenever anybody asked about my mother  
that's what he always said. "She'll come back by and by." But she  
never came back. Perhaps that was the reason for the whiskey. I do not  
know. But the name stuck. From then on, I was Charlie By and By. My  
heart-name is Rain on Dust. But that is only for me to know. My totem  
is the horse. This is also a secret thing. A sacred thing. I saw the  
free running stallion in a vision quest and knew what I must do with my  
life. But this is a great secret and I may not speak of it or the  
strong medicine will leave me. That would be bad. I would lose all my  
friends if I could not talk and understand the animals when they speak.  
  
Even now, when I am no longer allowed to ride for the money, I take care  
of the horses and teach the younger boys how best to ride them. Often,  
they do not listen but this is the way of the young.  
  
The white man speaks.  
  
"Your talent for controlling animals must have been very useful in your  
line of work," he remarked, smiling. "Five times All Around Champion  
Cowboy in US Rodeo Association competition, wasn't it?"  
  
It is good for a man to have his bravery and exploits recognized. I  
smiled in return. The feasts and campfires of yesteryear, when a  
warrior spoke of his accomplishments and gloried in the praise of others  
... those days are gone, bkwon away with the wind. The hotr wind from the South, the Black direction. But there are other things that have replaced them. Modesty is a white virtue.  
  
"Six," I reply. "Then they ruled that no one man could hold the title  
more than three times. Or I would still be Champion."  
  
"I don't doubt it," he returned, still smiling politely. "You're still  
a relatively young man." He is flattering, but nevertheless, I frowned,  
shaking my head in denial.  
  
"But I do not 'control' the horses," I told him, attempting to explain  
the inexplicable. "You do not understand. Once, in the long ago time  
all the animals could speak. We were all brothers under the fur. It  
was Coyote, the Trickster, who fooled them into foolish quarreling and  
the talking was no more. They had nothing to say to one another. And  
when one has nothing to say it is best to be silent." The other man  
nodded in agreement.  
  
"It was Coyote who tricked them and Corn Woman who blessed man with  
dominion over them in payment for their foolishness," he observed,  
cheerful in his knowledge of my people. I said nothing.  
  
It is useless to speak to white men of the ways of the world. They  
cannot see the truth. Always with them, it must be winning and losing.  
One thing besting another and, in the end, destroying it. The ways of  
others are unknown to them. And that is *their* way.  
  
Their curse.  
  
Cat leapt up onto my shoulder, a small bundle of lithe, black,  
quickness. Feline fur-folk need no names. They know who they are. And  
it does not matter to them if *you* know or not. Insistently, she head  
butted me and rubbed herself against my cheek, whispering, purring, in my ear.  
Gravely, I nodded, but when I turned my attention again to the white man  
Xavier, I was grinning. But only at Xavier.  
  
Never laugh at a cat.  
  
"Your friends outside grow inpatient," I told him. "The Short Snarly  
One is straining at the bit but, so far, the Red Eyed One has him  
leashed. Cat does not like the Pretty One. He smells like a bird.  
Does he really have wings? Like the eagle? Why does he hide them?"  
  
Xavier chuckled.  
  
"Yes," he replied, "I should imagine that Logan *is* growing quite  
restless. But Scott will cope. He always does. He's gifted that way.  
I've advised Warren to wear a restraining harness in public to conceal  
his wings. That's why he hides them." I frowned before I could stop  
myself.  
  
"That seems cruel," I gently reproved him. "The Folk of the Air are  
meant to be free. The sky is their home. Their right."  
  
The white man's smile faded and his face grew very still, like stone.  
It was only his crisp blue eyes that showed his displeasure at my  
words. His reply was quick, like silent lightening, and no less sharp.  
  
"Warren is a wise, obedient young man. He knows the necessity for his  
restraint and discomfort. Not everyone understands or approves of his  
wings. When I pointed that out to him, he agreed immediately that they  
should be concealed in public."  
  
I say nothing, only spreading my hands in defeat.  
  
Tonight I will sing a Blessing Way for the troubled, unhappy spirit of  
the young man Warren Worthington. His wings are beautiful. But they  
cannot fly him away from the truth. A crippled eagle, he cannot seek  
the sky as he wishes.  
  
We speak a bit longer of many things. He is a wise man in his way, this  
Xavier.  
  
For a pinda - likoye.  
  
In the end I must refuse his offer of training and sanctuary. I have no  
need of it. I am content. A simple man, I only want to help with the  
horses. This I understand. This thing I know. Of the white man's  
world, of this struggle Xavier speaks of between good and evil, I know  
nothing. Nor do I care. One man's good may be another man's evil. Who  
is to say? Not I. I only know what is right for Charlie By And By. I  
only know the horses. This thing I know. And a man should stick with  
what he knows.  
  
A man in Tucson with the strange name of Mustaffa told me a story once.  
It was a good story. All about how the One True God (whose name,  
Mustaffa says, is Allah) took the hot, dry South Wind (which Mustaffa  
called the Sirocco), gave it form and substance to create one of His  
greatest gifts to his Children: the horse. It is a very good story.  
And a true one, I think. I have never even ridden, much less owned, so  
fancy a white man's horse as an Arabian ... but the swift-hoofed kind  
are much alike, I think.  
  
Horses I understand. White men are a mystery I shall never piece with  
the sharpest of knives. Am I wrong to have sent the bald pinda - likoye  
away? Was he right to urge me to train my "skills" with my friends, the  
animals? It did not seem so to me. But .... What of his warning? Of  
this other gatherer of mutants? This Magneto? Again I can hear the  
almost pleading sadness in the voice of the white man Charles Xavier ...  
  
"He's not an evil man. You mustn't think that. He's simply afraid. So  
terribly, terribly afraid. He ... has no reason to think well of common  
humanity ... "  
  
There is more to this than meets the eye. Many unspoken things lie at the heart of these simple wrds. I am not fooled by their plainess. Xavier's eyes are hooded and closed when he speaks of this Magneto. His heart is sore and troubled by thoughts of this one. Great sadness lies between them. Great sadness... and great joy. The joy of brotherhood and a common soul.  
  
But this is a private thing and I wisely do not speak of it.  
  
The last I see of them, Xavier and his students, is the still face of  
the boy Warren Worthington as he glances at me nervously over his  
shoulder. Eyes the color of a clear, cloudless summer sky lock with  
mine, which are the color of our Mother the Earth. Our spirits join.  
  
'Fly free, feathered brother,' I say to him and he smiles, brightening  
the world.  
  
Never before have I called a white man brother. But this brotherhood is  
a truth I have only just learned. For a moment I regret my refusal.  
  
For a moment.  
  
The dust of their passage from my life has barely began to settle in the  
late afternoon twilight before I go and seek out another brother with  
whom to speak. Someone to balm my troubled spirit. The odor of horses  
is strong but familiar as I approach my small corral. I breath it in  
eagerly.  
  
"Ho, Wind Runner!" I greet my companion of many years. Arching his  
neck, the stallion stamps his foot and paws the earth. I smile. Like  
me, Wind Runner is not so young as he once was ... but he refuses to  
admit it. Wind Runner has never known the burden of a saddle.  
  
"Patience, Swift One," I council, stroking the velvet nose. He snorts  
his impatience with hot breath upon my cheek to remind me of his  
nature. It is good to be so reminded. He whinnies, tossing his head  
and pointing his nose at the red and gold and purple of the darkening  
sky.  
  
"Yes," I agree. "Wakan Tanka paints the skies with bright colors  
tonight, my friend." For long minutes we sit, enjoying the beauty that  
the greatest of spirits, Wakan Tanka, has provided for those who will  
pause to look.  
  
And then Wind Runner playfully nips my ear to once again remind me of  
his impatience. I laugh with him, flicking his ear with a finger in  
return.  
  
"Go yat ho hey, old friend," I assure him. :Let us go then and greet  
the dawn."  
  
I spring upon his back and he receives me gladly, a most welcome burden  
in his eyes. Now we are complete. Now we are together.  
  
I shut the corral gate behind me, breathing in the heavy scent of  
sagebrush and pinyon from the dry desert air. My eyes caress the  
horizon. The land is the same. It never changes. It is eternal. The  
grass grows and the wind blows.  
  
It is only people who change and betray themselves.  
  
This is another thing I know.  
  
I have no more doubts about my decision. This is where I belong. This  
is my place.  
  
This is *me*.  
  
Wind Runner stretches his legs. With a smile, I give him his head and  
let him do what he was born to do ... run. The thunder of his hoofs  
shakes the earth. Our blood races and pounds.  
  
Wind Runner is content.  
  
I am content.  
  
We are one.  
  
My name is Charlie By And By ...  
  
... and I have found the center of the earth.  
  
  
The End


End file.
